


Darkness Visible

by libertyelyot



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: BDSM, Byronic villains, F/M, Victorian Gothic AU, dark and stormy nights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:33:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libertyelyot/pseuds/libertyelyot
Summary: AU 19th Century Gothic.Who are the mysterious people who have moved into Darth Hall? And do they have anything to do with the sudden disappearance of Violet's sister, Fan, the originator and proprietor of Phasma's Phantasmagoria? Violet's attempts to find out land her squarely in the grasp of a certain sinister flame-haired cove.
Relationships: Hux/Original Character(s), Phasma/Kylo Ren
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I was pretty miffed at Hux's exit (Hexit?) from the sequel trilogy, so reparation is in order. I actually have an idea I prefer, but I need to see the Rise of Skywalker DVD first. In the meantime, nothing ever hits the spot for me like a soupcon of Victorianish gothic, so this is where I'm slaking my thirst for now.

**Chapter One: Smoke and Mirrors**

She snuffed the last of many candles and strode along the aisle of the abandoned chapel, her statuesque figure in its long silver robes drawing every eye in its wake.

“And now, my friends,” she intoned, “our stage is set. Our play begins. Whether we shall all be here when it ends cannot be known.”

She flung her arms up to the night sky, a cloth of darkness stretched above the open roof of the building. No moon, no stars, just specks of even deeper blackness flitting from glassless window to crumbling pillar, squeaking as they flew.

The sporadic coughing set in train by the heavy candle smoke turned suddenly to startled yells and moans of fear as a loud, unearthly rush of sound filled the air.

“What is it? What’s happening? Oh…look! Oh!”

The moans rose to screams. Bright flickering light illuminated every surface, and in that light, dancing and twisting in the smoke, hideous wild-eyed faces appeared and grew and came close to the audience before mutating into demonic goats, then witches upon broomsticks. Malevolent laughter, now deep, now a shrill cackle, accompanied the unsettling clangour surrounding every soul in that godforsaken place.

“We shouldna never a come,” sobbed Hetty Tyersley to her swain, a corn factor from up Colliton way. “Tis evil. Tis the devil.”

“Can’t be,” he said, but uneasily, tightening his arm around her waist.

As the maddening, menacing swirl grew faster and wilder, people seemed to come round to Hetty’s way of thinking. The crowd, one mass of open-mouthed stillness at first, broke apart. Wide eyes sought hiding places from the relentless onslaught of terror, shaky legs moved towards gaps in the stone, searching for the closest means of egress.

The first person to find a way out cried out in relief, and he was followed by a stampede, pushing and spluttering, desperate to squeeze through the gap through which they had entered, the old door being in ruins and choked with thicket.

“What was it though? What was that?” they muttered to each other before going their separate ways, to home and hearth, or inn, or, in the case of Hetty, the church of St Saviour in the village three miles distant, where she would light a candle and beg the forgiveness of Jesus for allowing herself to be taken to such an abode of iniquity.

Within the ruined chapel, the candle smoke dissipated and the evening’s hostess took another taper and lit it, peering through the dim respite it offered from the gloom and picking out the shape of the old altar at the far end of the nave.

“Violet? Are you there?”

I rubbed my beater over the dinner gong once more by way of reply.

“Come on, Vi, we should pack and be gone from here. It won’t be long before ale restores their courage and brings them back here, fists at the ready.”

“I know,” I said, rising from the weed-strewn floor and dusting off my knees. “Good crowd, though. And the rain kept off.”

“For the moment,” she said, raising her eyes to the clouds, hectic now, bringing a gusty soughing wind with them. The taper illumined her broad face and bright hair. “Do you have the gong? Where did you put the mirrors?”

I collected them from their corners and niches while she packed the magic lantern into its box.

“Where are we tomorrow, Fan?” I asked, gathering candlesticks.

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” she scolded. “Fanny Sweet is no more. It’s Mistress Phasma now. Mistress Phasma of Phasma’s Phantasmagoria.” She rattled the tin wherein lay our evening’s takings. “Capital,” she approved. “We shall eat like queens tomorrow, sister.”

I shut and locked the trunk, preparing to pull it behind me on the trolley while Fan…Phasma…strapped the bulky lantern box to her back.

In the semi-dark, I struggled to find the gap we needed to squeeze ourselves and our equipment through. It had been difficult enough to locate in daylight, but now…now it really did seem to have disappeared.

“Fan…zzz,” I said uncertainly, feeling the rough stone wall before me. “I can’t quite…where was it exactly? I thought…here…”

I screamed suddenly as my questing hands found, instead of rock, firm warmth behind soft velvet. I stepped back abruptly, tripping over the trolley and landing gracelessly on my behind. Above me loomed a shadow, a tall wide black thing. It took me disorientated seconds to recognise the apparition as a man.

“Vi, whatever’s the…? Hullo. What’s this? Have I had the pleasure?”

The shadow stepped through the gap and stood before us. Now, from the unreliable glow of Fan’s taper, I could see that he was no devil but simply a young man. Quite an attractive one, well-dressed, with his dark hair pulled back into the low ribboned ponytail that fashion no longer deemed manly, much as it suited him.

“We met before, in the inn at Lower Pendle.” His voice was deep, emphatic.

“Why, so we did.” Fan’s tone changed, became as close as it ever did to honeyed. I let my stomach unknot itself. If Fan thought he was all right, then there was nothing to worry about, although I didn’t remember seeing him that night in Lower Pendle. But I had retired early, after all. “I remember it well. Benedictus?”

“That’s right.” He didn’t quite smile. He had the kind of strong, sullen features that lend themselves poorly to gaiety. “Forgive me, I had to follow you. I had to see your Phantasmagoria for myself. It’s very impressive. Would you mind letting me look at it?”

“I…well, I’m rather possessive of it, you know. It’s our livelihood, after all. And it’s getting rather late.” She looked up again. Drops of rain settled on her noble brow, streaking sideways into her hair.

“I live near here,” he said. “Bring it to my house.”

I could see her struggle to reconcile her clear attraction to this man with her overriding sense of self-preservation. To my surprise, for once, the attraction won.

“Vi,” she said. “Why don’t you run along home. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Alone?” I demurred. I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep in the waggon without Fan’s stalwart presence and mild snoring in the bunk below.

“Vi, it’s ten minutes walk away. All will be well. Here.” She pressed the key into my hand. “We’ve spoken about this, haven’t we?” she said, more sternly, seeing my hesitation. “We are two women, quite alone in the world. We cannot be timid little geese.”

Fan couldn’t be a timid little anything. She was well above the middle height, even for a man. And she was nearly thirty and had been used to ordering and directing a large household since mother died when I was born, and she was ten years old.

When I was beside her, I felt invincible. But when I was not, I could lay no such claim.

To challenge her was unthinkable, however, and so I passed the man Benedictus, bobbing a nervous little nod in his direction, and slipped through the gap, out into the fields and lanes beyond.

“We cannot be timid little geese,” I whispered to myself, hurrying along the path that led to the clearing where we had left the waggon. All the same, the wind whipping my hair and the rain soaking my shawl seemed to bring foreboding along with the cold and wetness and I sighed with relief when I heard Strawberry whickering nearby.

I climbed into the waggon, locked the door behind me, lit a candle and took up my book. It was useless to think of sleeping until Fan was back.

But the book was not comforting. _Frankenstein,_ or _The Modern Prometheus._ Fan had read it and been enthusiastic, but nothing frightened her. I set it down, put my head on the table and uttered the same silent prayer I had repeated most days since father’s death.

“Please let cousin Geoffrey die horribly so that Melton Hall can be our home again.” Intellectually, of course, I knew it didn’t work that way. If cousin Geoffrey died horribly, then there would be untold legal wrangling over the house, which would probably end up in the hands of the crown. Fan and I would remain homeless wanderers until we died, or some pair of men took us for wives. Neither prospect was appealing, but neither was this dangerous, itinerant life.

The thoughts, prayers, fears revolved in my mind until I could make no more sense of them and I drifted, cheek still pressed into the table, into sleep.

*

I woke with a start, Strawberry snorting loudly outside. It was daylight. I was thick-headed and stiff, my eyelids glued down. Coming to, I wondered why I hadn’t gone to bed and thought of asking Fan.

But Fan was not there.


	2. Darth Hall

**Chapter Two: Darth Hall**

The inn at Lower Pendle was not a class of establishment I would habitually frequent. Indeed, I had never set foot in any tavern until Fan and I had taken up our wandering mode of life and we needed to let local people know about our performances. Without Fan, I was not sure I dared step over the worn, stained threshold.

But without Fan, I had no foreseeable future, and so the thing had to be done.

Lifting my petticoats clear of the pools of stale yellow-brownish liquid collecting wherever the flagstones were uneven, I made my way to the bar, hotly conscious of the many reddening eyes that followed my progress.

“Are you lonely, dear?”

“Lost, more like. That’s a fancier piece that us’ll get in here of a morning.”

The mutters pursued me but I kept my head until I was at the bar, face to face with a short, balding man wiping the rims of glasses with a dirty cloth.

“What’ll it be, sweet thing?” he asked.

“I haven’t come in for a drink,” I told him. The muttering had ceased, every carter and porter and ne’er-do-well in the place hanging on my words.

“No? Well, if you’re looking for the milliner’s, this ain’t it,” said the barman, to laughter.

“I’m looking for somebody who came in here three nights ago. A tall man, young, with dark hair and eyes. Well dressed and spoken.”

“Left thee in the lurch, has ee? I’ll fetch him a nice black eye for you, lass.” More laughter.

“It’s important,” I said, my face hot with frustration and embarrassment. “Have you seen him? He has a big nose,” I added helpfully.

“Ar, thee knows what they says about lads wi’ big noses,” called out one drinker, whose own version of that appendage was geranium red.

“Hush, Mart,” chided the barman. “Aye, I think I recall ‘un. Big nose, velvet topcoat, hair fetched up in a ribbon?”

“Yes, yes, that’s him. Name of…I think something like Benedict or…?”

“Benedictus.”

The man who spoke was elderly, seated alone in a corner.

I turned to him, my heart leaping with hope.

“Do you know him? Do you know where he might live?”

“You don’t want business with ee,” said the man. “Nor none of them that’ve moved in up Darth Hall.”

“Darth Hall? Where is that? Is it near here?”

“Four mile up the Colliton Road, lass. But I tells thee again. You don’t want no truck with ‘em.”

“Why…not?” The old man’s words were not what I wanted to hear. I wanted to know that Benedictus was a respectable man and that my sister was safe in his company.

“Them’s up to no good. Funny goings on there. Strange chanting, screams in the night. Old Mother Eccles reckons she saw a man pushed from the tower. The Jelfs brothers thought they’d try and get in there, see for themselves. Well, they may have got in. Nobody can tell, because nobody ain’t ever seen them again.”

I swallowed, tried to smile. “Oh, that’s…you’re just trying to frighten me.”

“Aye,” he said, drinking deep from a beaten pewter tankard. “That’ll be it. Just tryin’ to frit thee.”

“So…? Four miles up the Colliton Road?”

“He ain’t lyin’,” another man offered. “Darth Hall…not a place I’d pass by after dark. This Benedictus is a rum ‘un. Where he came from, nobody knows.”

“Oh, well, thank you for your help, at any rate,” I said, backing out of the building before the stink of stale hops and unwashed bodies brought up my breakfast.

“Superstitious nonsense,” I muttered under my breath, Fan’s catch-all phrase for anything that didn’t have a solid basis in practical fact. Fan would have laughed in their faces. “Just the usual suspicion of clean skin and well-cut clothes.”

Two miles up the Colliton Road, the mild grey skies darkened and that same whipping wind that had sent the bats wheeling wild the night before set itself at my face. I pushed through it, pulling my shawl over my head to protect it from the rain. Strawberry plodded on faithfully, seeming not to object to having me on the waggon box instead of Fan.

The country around us was flat, stony brown fields behind dismal grey hedgerows. It looked as if nothing grew here but weeds and brambles. Presently we passed into woodland, dark heavy canopies hanging above us, blotting out the light – but also, more happily, sheltering us from the rain. But such a lonely road. Not a soul had passed us all this weary way.

At length a high brick wall bordered the left side of the road, almost as high as the trees behind it. There was no question of being able to see over it, but a small flicker of optimism gladdened my heart, for this must surely mark the bounds of Darth Hall.

“I am near you, Fan,” I murmured. “You will be up here soon, and I will be brewing tea in the waggon behind.”

It was a long time still before we came to any kind of entrance, but at last we drew up at a gate of thickly barred black wrought iron. The bars met and crossed at so many points that it was difficult to get a good look at what might lie behind them. I jumped off the box and put my eye to the cold slick metal, peering into the dimness, for it was now dusk. Could I see a light? The shape of a house at the end of a long, gloomy avenue? It was not possible to be certain.

What was certain was that there was no way of opening this gate. It was locked so tight I could not even rattle the bars. It could not be climbed over, nor was there any bell pull to attract attention at the house.

“Well,” I said, stepping back. “What is to be done, Strawberry? Must we wait until somebody comes in or out of the place?”

With night falling, it seemed I would have to wait until morning, unless I tried to find some other way in around the back. But it would take a long time to reach even the end of the wall, and there was no moon and the weather was fierce, the wind building ever higher. No, I would have to park the waggon somewhere sheltered and wait for daylight.

As I lay on my bunk, the wind banged and slammed around us, branches falling on to the roof, the undercarriage rocking from side to side. Sleep would not be had, and I sat up again, with the candle, but not the book, for my mind was full and had no need of diversions from the modern Prometheus. If Fan was inside that house, what kept her there? For surely she would not have willingly left me alone. Who was Benedictus, and could the tall tales of the drinkers, so easily laughed off in daylight, have substance to them? I listened for chanting, for screams, but anything I heard was so obviously attributable to the wind that I could draw no conclusion.

The clock face showed some minutes after four when I was aroused by a knocking, louder and more rhythmic than anything the weather had thus far provoked. I stood up on legs weak with dread. A person? Knocking at the waggon door? At this hour and on such a wild night?

“Is anybody there?” A voice now, that of a young man, but sounding high with fear and desperation. “Can anybody help me?”

“Who is there?” I quavered, making sure the lock was fast.

“A lady – are you alone? I swear I will do nothing to harm you. Please, I am injured, please, can you help me.”

His voice was fading into piteousness that touched my heart. I unlocked the door.

Slumped on the waggon steps was a dark-skinned young man, the whites of his upturned eyes shining at me. He was curiously dressed in a robe of some coarse white stuff, which was ripped and bloodied near the hem.

“You’re hurt?” I said.

“My leg. Bitten. A rat, I think. Can you…?”

“Good gracious. Oh. Take my hand, I have something I can put on your wound.”

We battened the door against the howling gale and the young man sat down on Fan’s stool. I found the medicine chest, applied salve to his bite and bound it up with clean rags.

“I think it is nothing too serious,” I told him. “Although I am no physician. Can you tell me how you came by your injury?”

He was calmer now, sipping from Fan’s emergency brandy.

“I could. I can. I cannot stay here,” he said, looking nervously around as if expecting fiends to come leaping from the pots and pans that hung on the wall. “Are you a gypsy?”

“No, this caravan was bequeathed to my sister by a romany though, an old wise woman. Fan and she were great friends and when she died… She taught Fan a lot of the old romany wisdom. Folk remedies and soforth, you know.”

He nodded. “You don’t look like you have gypsy blood in your veins. But I have to leave now, before dawn, before they… I have to leave.”

“May I ask you,” I said, my breath quickening. “Did you come from that house? From Darth Hall?”

He put a hand to his mouth, as if he would vomit. I laid my hands quickly on a bucket and put it beside him, but he uncovered it again and nodded, his eyes wide and terrified again.

“I am sorry, I don’t mean to cause you distress but I need to get inside that house. I need to find my sister.”

“No,” he said forcefully. “You get away from here. Well away, do you hear? This is a very bad place.”

“Please, if you could just tell me how you got out of there…”

“Through a tunnel. I’ve been digging it for months, every chance I got. Nobody knows about it yet. Nobody knows I’m gone, I hope, not yet. Lady, I have to go now. I have to get to the village and take the next stage away from here. Maybe I can get a ship to the west of Africa. Or America. Or anywhere. Anywhere. Thank you for your help and please, if you value your life, do not go in there. Here.” He reached beneath his robe and produced a curved ceremonial-looking knife with a wickedly sharp blade. “I took this. I have another as well. You might need it.”

“Oh…” He pressed the weapon into my hand.

“It’s a gift, to say thank you for your help. A gift from Finn.”

“Well, thank you. And I’m Violet, by the way.”

“Violet. Be safe. I hope you find your sister, but I hope she isn’t in there, for both your sakes. Goodbye.” He stood, gravely offering me his hand, which I took. We were both cold and clammy at the palm, both a little shaky as we shook.

Then he opened the door and the winds took him away from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing like fury to get these 2 chapters of set up out of the way before I can get on the good Hux stuff. But it is coming - next chapter, I promise.


	3. Jeopardy

**Chapter Three: Jeopardy**

As soon as dawn broke, I walked out into the whistling blast outside and made my way painstakingly along the wall, searching at its base for anything like a man-sized hole. My progress was slow, impeded by tangled undergrowth and the severe weather conditions, but I could not give up. I could not leave this place without Fan.

When, at last, some hours later I came upon the wide dark maw of Finn’s tunnel, I was neither triumphant nor relieved. My thoughts were of the rat that had bitten Finn’s leg, and I made sure the buttons on my leather gloves were well fastened and every part of my body that could be was covered. Only my face remained and I could hardly cover that. Would a rat bite my face? What if its tooth sank into my eye?

Shuddering I worked hard to push the thought from my mind. This was my best chance to get to Fan. Simply waiting for somebody to enter or leave would attract the attention of whoever lived there – and if Finn’s terror was real, that was not a risk I wished to take.

Crouching, I peered into the dark, hoping the tunnel was not too long. I had never been keen on confined dark spaces, let alone those which were dirty and played host to all manner of creepy life. It took some time to gather the requisite nerve, but finally I eased myself in, head first, and shimmied slowly forward on my stomach. I was smaller and slighter than Finn, so I had a little leeway and could be confident that I would not find myself stuck in there. What a nightmare that would be, to be confined in that pitch-black loam-smelling conduit, with worms dropping on my neck and scarce any air to breathe without dirt entering mouth, ears, nostrils.

The tunnel seemed endless, yet in truth it was no longer than the height of two men together, passing beneath the wall and coming out amidst a clumpy bush in the wooded shade of the grounds. I climbed out, tried to brush off the worst of the mud, but my boots were thick with it and I would have to wait for it to dry before picking it away. I ran a damp handkerchief over my face, looking all around to make sure my only companions were the trees.

I was indeed alone and I picked a path through the thicket, hoping that it would take me nearer the house, although for all I knew I may have been taking myself further away.

But eventually the woodland thinned and I began to see between the branches and clumps wide green space, outbuildings and finally, in the distance, a handsome stately pile in the Jacobean style with one high turret climbing from a corner and pointing up to the still-stormy sky.

I leant against a tree trunk and watched, frozen with horrified curiosity, as a long line of figures, all dressed in those same sack-like white robes Finn had worn, streamed across a lawn. As well as the robes, they wore head-coverings of the same material, with cut outs for eyes and mouth. The effect was eerie, and my spine crawled with foreboding. At their head was another figure in black, but again, the features were obscured by a mask, seemingly of leather.

They formed themselves into a semi-circle and, at the man in black’s signal, all fell forward into a low crouch. Without the utterance of a single sound, the white-clad figures stretched as one into all manner of curious postures while their black-clad instructor did no more than gesture at them.

They were all facing away from me. If I was quick, I could cross the lawn unobserved and round the outbuildings. The question then was whether or not I could be seen from the house.

I ran pell-mell across the grass and pressed myself flat against the wall of the nearest building. It seemed to be a dairy but it was unmanned, the churns lying empty. I sidled slowly along, seeing that my next objective was a kitchen garden, from which I could enter the house via a back porch.

Again, nobody was in the garden, but I dropped low so that a row of large cabbages would hide me from anybody standing by the kitchen windows. No voices could be heard within. I waited a few minutes, to be sure, then I flitted quickly to the back scullery door.

The kitchen, I found, was noisy with the clanking of pans, although still there were no voices. But the scullery had another door, out into a narrow little passage.

At the end of the passage I stood in an agony of indecision. Now I was in the house, what should I do? Could I hide myself until I heard Fan’s voice? Could I look for her without being seen? There were voices somewhere distant, perhaps on an upper floor. It wasn’t conversation, but all on one note, a low note…the chanting I had heard of?

It was unearthly and unsettling. I felt the need to be away from it, and I stepped out into a small vestibule. But now there was a closer sound, the sound of smart footsteps on polished tiles, approaching rapidly. What was I to do?

I turned the handle of the nearest door, finding that it led into some kind of linen press, large enough for me to crouch and conceal myself in amongst the clean towels and bedding. Mentally I apologised to whoever had laundered them for rubbing my tunnel-dirty clothing up against their pristine whiteness.

The footsteps were close now, surely mere feet from me. I closed my eyes, clenched everything, prayed for them to pass.

They stopped.

My heart followed their example.

Slowly, almost silently, with just the ghost of a creak, the door opened and light crept over me. Unable to look up, I kept my eyes to the ground where, once the door was wide, the shiny-dark tiled floor was replaced by shiny-dark boots.

“Well.” A voice, softly spoken but unmistakably male and authoritative, high above me. “What interesting laundry. What have we here?”

Two fingertips curled under my chin and yanked it up. My eyes travelled up a long lean line of black until they arrived at a pale face topped with the most vividly red hair I had ever seen. The eyes boring into me were green and bright with curiosity, perhaps even amusement. Amusement might be good. At least there was little sign of anger.

“Please,” I managed to gasp. “Do you know my sister? Fan? Phasma?”

“Ohhhh.” It was almost a sigh of pleasurable recognition.

I tensed with excitement. He knew her. She must be here.

“Can you help me? Help us?”

He paused, seeming to revel in the way he was looking down at me, cocked his head to one side, chewed on his lower lip.

“Hmm. I think you’d better come with me,” he said, placing a hand beneath my elbow and pulling me up to my feet.

He kept the hand in place as he led me through another narrow passage towards a dusty back staircase. He was very much taller than me, and matching his long-legged pace was not a simple matter, but I managed to trot along in his wake, trying every so often to ask a breathless question about Fan’s whereabouts, all of which he ignored.

At the top of the staircase, we came out through a trapdoor on to a kind of battlement, which appeared to be the only way into the turret.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, looking down and seeing the green surrounds patched with white where groups of those strangely clad people stood in formations, performing their odd exercises. “Is Fan well? Is she in there? In that turret?”

Silently, he opened the turret door and ushered me inside. I picked up my muddy petticoats and climbed a steep stone spiral, conscious of the man behind me, preventing me from turning back. At the top of the spiral, he drew level with me and opened another door.

It led into a suite of rooms, darkly but brilliantly furnished, hung with all manner of tapestries and furs, and the strangest pictures I had ever seen. But I did not spend much attention on them, moving swiftly through the rooms in search of my sister.

“But is she not here?” I said at last, dismayed when no trace of her could be found.

“Did I say she was?” the man retorted, looking over at me, his hands steepled in front of him as if in prayer. I saw that what he wore was some kind of robe, rather like a priest’s cassock, but closer fitting, fastened from neck to boot toe with shiny black buttons.

“But if she is not…then why have you brought me here?” I asked, fearing the answer so much that my voice cracked on the last words.

“I’d invite you to take a seat,” he said, frowning at me, “but you’re in such a filthy condition. How have you got yourself so dirty?”

“I…” Somehow I was finding it impossible to form coherent words.

“Well, no matter, we shall have to clean you up. How did you get in here? The gates are kept locked.”

I didn’t want to tell him about the tunnel. I had the feeling that, if I did, my one and only escape route would be blocked.

“I…fell. In the woods. It was muddy…the rain…”

“I see. But that doesn’t answer my question. How did you get in?”

I stared stupidly at his mouth, at his full lips, which he was pursing in displeasure.

“Nothing to tell me then?” he said, and for the first time there was ominous steel in his tone. “We shall have to see about that. But first, you really must get out of those dreadful clothes. I’ll see to a bath.”

He moved towards the opulent bathroom I had seen during my search for Fan. Instinctively I turned and made for the door to the spiral, but he was wise to me immediately, flashing past and turning a very large key in the lock.

“Remiss of me,” he said with a tight smile, replacing the key in his robes. “Not that you’d get very far. But you really mustn’t be found here. I cannot overstate how ill-advised that would be.”

In a panic now, I clenched my fists and launched myself at him, wild in my eagerness to get him out of my way and through the door. Laughing, he made short work of immobilising me, pinioning my wrists in a tight grip before seating me unceremoniously in a chair.

“You will stay there,” he rasped, reaching into a drawer and bringing out some lengths of rope. I was too winded to move and had no choice but to submit as he fastened my wrists and ankles to the seat. “And behave yourself. Now, I shall see to that bath.”

He tested the bonds for tightness and, finding them to his satisfaction, stood once more and left the room.

Now I could only wait and trust that I would live to see the end of this day.


	4. Hot Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure there's anybody out there, but I'm enjoying myself, so what the heck. Chapter Four.

**Chapter Four: Hot Water**

I was at leisure, while my captor saw to boiling water and filling the bath, to take stock of my surroundings. The furnishings in the room were luxurious but dark, most coverings and wall hangings being black embroidered with gold. Some purple, some oxblood, a little darkest green. The tone harked well back before the last century to the medieval past, with much in the way of pointed arches and ornate wood carving. The two leaded casements were glazed with stained glass. It was rather reminiscent of a church, except that one would never expect to see a huge four-post bed, canopied in velvet, in a church. Yet such there was, at the far wall.

All of this, I suppose, could pass for unexceptional. It was the wall hangings and art works that made my hackles rise. I could scarcely bear to look upon them, colourful and skilled of execution as they were. Crowded scenes, as crowded as the Hogarth etchings Fan had shown me once, but in full and lurid colour, teeming with eye-popping goblins and razor-clawed demons, bare-breasted women and unfortunate men losing their entrails. Executions of all kinds, bloody battles, burnings at the stake. And all around and between them, such strange symbols, such as I could not believe meant anything good.

It made me strain in my bonds as energetically as I could, but all to no avail. I thought of what the men at the inn had said, about seeing a man fall from a turret. Had he fallen from the very window, with its jewelled panes of emerald and ruby, which I now faced?

At length, my captor emerged from a connecting room. His hands were wet and a lock of red hair fell forward, disrupting the severe neatness of his cut, shorter than was the fashion, but with the newly de rigueur sideburns. He was more a man of this century than his friend, or colleague, or whatever he may be, Benedictus.

“Are you quite calm now?” he asked, approaching me.

“How should I be calm when you have tied me to this chair and hold me captive in this…Arthurian dungeon?”

His lips quirked upwards as he bent to release my wrists.

“I think the dungeons of lore were rather less well-appointed,” he said. “But if you prefer cobwebs and rats, there are some ancient cellars beneath this place. Would you like me to take you to them?”

“No,” I said, shivering at the mention of rats, thinking of Finn and his leg wound and hoping against hope that he had escaped in time. “Unless they lead to a way out of here.”

“They do not,” he said briskly, kneeling to deal with my ankles. “There is no way out of here without authorisation.”

“Who gives authorisation?”

“I do, along with a few others.”

“Then I think you should authorise me.”

He laughed, and looked up directly into my eyes.

“You seem accustomed to your own way,” he said. “But your own way has led you here, so perhaps you should have less faith in it.”

I would not have shown it, but at heart I appreciated the man’s manner and its lack of violence, anger or coarseness. Such a refined man, I thought hopefully, would not think of doing me harm. He could be reasoned with.

“Why do you hold me here?” I asked urgently as he took my hand and helped me to my feet. “I can be of no use to you. Please, let me go, or at least tell me what has become of my sister.”

“Your sister is quite well,” he said, more tersely, but his manner could not dampen the flame of relief that shot through my body. “As for you, I’m afraid it isn’t so simple. If you leave these rooms, and you are found…” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “You cannot be found. You are very fortunate that I saw you crossing the lawn and intercepted you before a squadron came across you.”

“A squadron? Is this some kind of military place?”

We were in the bathroom now. He released me and pointed to the copper tub, which stood next to a large cast-iron stove, on which the water had been heated. Something was in the water, something which smelled heady and heavenly.

“So many questions,” he said. “But I have one for you. Your name?”

“Hasn’t she spoken of me? My sister?”

“She may have done. If so, I have forgotten it. So?”

“Violet. Violet Sweet.”

“A violet by a mossy stone, half-hidden from the sky,” he quoted softly.

My skin prickled.

“Yes,” I muttered. “My father used to like that poem.”

“As well he might. My name, if it is of any interest to you, is Hux.”

“What manner of name is _that_?”

“One you will learn to respect,” he said stiffly. “I will leave you to your bath.”

He bowed his head and retired.

I looked around the room, wondering if there was something in here I could use as a weapon in pursuit of my freedom, but he had taken out the kettles and pans and the fuel in the stove was no more than ashes now. A mirror revealed the shocking state of my hair and face after my tunnelling. I had to admit, Hux was right to insist that I wash. Draped over a chair was a long white linen shirt, or perhaps an old-fashioned shift. It would reach no further than the middle of my thigh, though, so on reflection it must be one of his shirts, or perhaps a night shirt. Did he expect me to wear this thing?

As soon as I sat to remove my boots, I realised my problem. What the maidservant had done at home, and Fan in the waggon, I could not do alone.

I went to the door and, opening it a crack, called, “Might you have such a thing as a buttonhook?”

“A buttonhook? Alas, I do not. I have no need of one.”

“Oh…well…could you perhaps…there must be one somewhere in this house, surely?”

“I am not running errands for fripperies,” he said. “If you cannot unbutton yourself, then I will assist you.”

I shut the door quickly and leant back on it, my face aflame.

“Oh nooo,” I moaned to myself. How could a gentleman even suggest such a thing? It was beyond the pale. Surely there was a maidservant somewhere in the house who could…? And it had occurred to me now that the buttons that ran up the back of my frock were the least of my worries. Underneath them were my tight-laced stays that I would never be able to loosen alone.

Amidst my agitation, he knocked on the door.

“Well? Do you need help?”

“Is there no maid…?”

“There is no maid,” he said firmly. “You may be assured that nothing improper will occur. I will simply unbutton whatever wants unbuttoning and leave you alone. If it’s your reputation you fear for, I imagine that’s already done for. You are, after all, alone in a bedchamber with a man.”

“Don’t be such a beast.” Tears came to my eyes. If he was going to be unpleasant, my fragile nerves would snap and I would lose all control of myself. “I thought you were a gentleman.”

There was a sound at that, something like a suppressed snort.

“You have my word,” he said.

I swallowed. There was really nothing for it. If I wasn’t going to spend an undisclosed length of time with mud-caked hair and dirt at the nape of my neck, I had to get into that bath. And after all…he wouldn’t see anything _too_ untoward. Nothing a low-cut ballgown wouldn’t display, and ladies wore those all the time.

I opened the door and went to sit on the chair beside the tub.

“My boots, if you please,” I said, looking away from him and lifting one leg.

I didn’t see, but I heard him kneel, fabric shushing about him as he moved. He took my heel in one hand and used the other to ease the buttons out of their unyielding loops, tutting at the dried dirt that must have fallen on to his fingers as he worked.

“These will need polishing,” he remarked, setting to work on the second, but I made no reply. I was pretending he was not there.

“There,” he said, once both my feet were clad only in their stockings. “Now, what about that dress? Up.”

He snapped his fingers, and I glared at him, burning with indignation. Did he take me for a dog?

“It is a habit,” he said, with a note of apology. “I am used to commanding.”

“Are you an army officer?”

“Something of the sort. Please. Stand, if we are not to spend all day in here.”

I rose to my feet and turned away from him, my face hotter than the steaming water in the bath. He dealt swiftly and neatly with the long row of buttons, then turned to leave.

“Excuse me,” I said, mortified but knowing I had no choice. “But I have further need…”

“Oh?” He lingered behind me. I could feel how close he was, feel the warmth from his body.

“It’s…” Boiling now with the indignity of it, I pulled down my frock and stepped out of it, so that I stood in my stays and mud-spattered petticoats. “It’s these tight laces…do you see…?”

“Ah,” he said, and his voice was deeper, throaty. He coughed slightly. “Yes, I do. Well…it’s easy enough…”

I heard the swish of the top lace being pulled undone, trying not to step backwards into him. Then he took each side of the corset and yanked it wide. As he did this, his thumb tips brushed my skin, which sparked into a kind of shocking life, such that I caught my breath and held it until the strange sensation faded.

“There, that should do it,” he said. His breath was hot against the back of my neck.

“Thank you,” I said, but it barely sounded on the air and I wasn’t sure he heard me.

“Call for me when you are dressed again,” he said.

The door banged behind him and I dropped to my knees, gazing into the rising steam of the bathwater until I felt strong enough to finish undressing and climb in.


End file.
